


Flower

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley wears leather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower

Cordelia asked him once if he had a leather fetish.  He likes to  
think the question was only brought on by her memory of the soft  
wool winter suits he wore while they dated.  When she buried her  
face in his chest for hours at a time, thinking, he supposes,  
that he smelled like money.

A different Cordy now.  One who can be bribed.  He declared the  
office closed for a few daylight hours and took her up to the  
hills, taught her to handle his motorcycle.  Her price for  
leaving the subject alone.  She's strong enough; under the  
fragile girl-clothes, those arms are iron-hard.  New muscles  
she's acquired in her work with Angel.  He told Faith once that  
slaying was the best exercise.  One of their few moments of  
connection.

His left arm still throbs faintly when he thinks about Faith.  He  
wonders how much he gave away to her while she was carving parts  
of him away.  Whether she could sense him imagining big hands  
locked around his jaw in place of her talons.  Whether he cried  
Angel's name while he bled.  He doesn't think so.  She wouldn't  
have said something.  Then or later.  Later, while Angel nursed  
her and he curled up cold and bruised in his bed at home and  
cried.

He wishes he'd stripped naked for Angel that next morning, when  
Angel took her breakfast and cuddled her like a broken child.  He  
should have demanded that Angel acknowledge what she'd done to  
him.  The shredded skin.  The broken ribs flowering out blue and  
purple across his chest.  The cracked collarbone that he didn't  
identify for almost a week, when he finally cried out in pain  
once too often and Cordelia drove him to the hospital.  The  
shallow cuts on his belly.  The sickening ringing in his ears  
that made him constantly and sent him running for the bathroom  
more than once.

He can imagine Angel's hands on him, curious like an animal with  
no sense of pain.  The vampire senses identifying both the places  
where he was bleeding intermittently and those where blood was  
pooling just under his skin.  Cold fingers tracing out the pain  
on his flesh.

Teeth running down his chest while Angel licks the blood off.    
Cold lips on him, following the bruising down the central line of  
his body.  Licking below his navel, where the worst bruises  
disappear into the waist of his trousers.  Licking into his navel  
for the body-warm flecks of blood that his three showers that  
first night still missed.

Angel possesses him.  More than he likes to admit.  He was a  
wretched and pathetic thing when he cajoled an invitation to stay  
out of Angel and Cordelia, but he thinks he's maybe been useful  
since then.  He offers expert administration, in which he gets to  
exercise all the anal-retentive traits that his Watcher training  
drummed into him.  He was not unhelpful in a dozen very close  
encounters with higher demons.  Two nights when Angel accepted  
his body heat and curled around him on the couch in his  
apartment, while Wesley carded that thick, dark hair with his  
fingers.  He smelled his fingers afterward, but like all  
vampires, Angel leaves no trace.  He doesn't smell like anything  
at all.

Just those few minutes on the second night when Angel's curl  
brought his face up to Wesley's hip.  And rested there, chin  
against the almost unpadded bone of his pelvis.  Angel snuffled  
there, instinctively seeking the big veins that ran up from  
Wesley's legs.  Moving slowly in towards his groin, leading  
inexorably to the external iliac vein and his cock hardening just  
below it.

He still isn't sure whether Angel kissed him before he pulled  
away and sat up.  He remembers warmth, but that isn't possible.    
Even if he could have felt it through his trousers, Angel doesn't  
have any body heat to offer.

Sometimes, he gets the impression that Cordelia wants to check  
him for tooth marks in the morning.  She watches him fiercely,  
looking for whatever secretly clever girls look for when they  
look at soft-spoken Englishmen.  She could, he supposes, just be  
watching his ass while he bends down to buckle his motorcycle  
boots, but it's unlikely.  Whatever else may be true, he's fairly  
sure she got her fill and more of looking at his ass while they  
were dating.

He's not entirely sure that she's forgiven him for that.  If she  
said he seduced her, he's not entirely sure he could deny it.    
She was beautiful and brittle and radiated sophistication, but  
she was a child, really.  All the innocence of suburbia was  
locked inside her shell.  He could have done anything to her.

The chrome of his motorcycle clamped between her thighs was  
beautiful that day.  These days, he's grateful for how strong she  
is.


End file.
